THE, COMPANY IS NOT RE,SPONSIßLE, r i iI · l ; ffft! w': " .., ',',..,>':':': i ::::,' ':...} @ þþ , . . :":' '::',':"'>:>': : 1> '*' '.. m: ' *3!'...x',, . T HERE was a girl named Margie, a girl named Ann, a honeymoon couple, a man named George, the girl called Blondie, and me; a middle- aged woman, a drunken sailor, four Harvard boys, a machinist's mate (first class), the driver-called Mac, though that was not his name-and several supernumerary passengers, among them noticeably a soldier with a pipe. It was Wednesday night of the week before Easter; it was raining; the bus we were waiting for had broken down at Saga- more-now it would be ten, anyway, before the Provincetown passengers got home to dinner. We sat in our own bus and smoked and complained to the driv- er, who had swivelled around in his seat and faced us, like a teacher, grinning, as though he sympathized with us and at the same time took no stock in the seri- ousness of our predicament. He was a young boy in a blue sweater-only the old bus drivers wore uniforms now-yet his smile was one of antique patience, the patience of the public servant who has been through it all before and knows that nobody, nobody in the world, really has to get anywhere on time. eeJ esus, Mac, it's eight thirty-five!" the sailor said. Being drunk, he could achieve perfectly, without inhibition, that note of in- credulity, outrage, and wry despair that was the pitch of our combined feelings. Every five min- utes, with considerable difficulty, he would pull a dollar watch out of his pocket and focus blood- shot, astonished eyes on it. " J M " h esus, ac, e re- d d 1 ". , peate esperate y, It s eight thirty-five!" "Eight thirty-four," put in the Harvard boy with the glasses, the voice of science \-v hich had regularly, ever since our wait had begun, been correcting the sailor's enthusiastic approxima- tions. "This is WAR!" thundered George, the bus kidder, in a rather creditable imitation of Mr. Roosevelt. We all laughed happily, irresponsibly, and waited for the sailor to continue, knowing what would come next, since we had just heard it five minutes before. " J M 1 , . , ,, A esus, ac, et s get gOIng. pause. "J esus, l'vlac, let me drive that bus! 1'11 take a short cut." The bus driver mere- ly smiled. "You know what I'm going " to do when I get to Provincetown " said the sailor, pi king up another theme. "I'm going to a phone booth and call up my mother, and I'm going to say, (Hello, Ma, this is the apple of your eye.' " "Shame on you," said the girl named Margie, in a husky, kidding tone. "You ought to go and see her." " H 11 " . d h . 1 " I ' e no, sal t e sal or. m go- ing to celebrate. That's the trouble with me," he added soberly. "I'm my moth- er's darling." Everybody laughed. The middle-aged woman beside me shook the seat with mirth. The Harvard boys' laughter trickled out quickly, however; they looked around to see whether any of us were thinking, "And you, what abou t you?" It was strange, I thought; each of us had his favorite section of the sailor's routine. I liked the part where the bus driver would try to punch his ticket and the sailor would not let him see it, say- ing, "Not till you set me down in Prov- incetown, Mac," and continuing audi- bly, as the bus driver passed down the aisle, "I've got him fooled. He doesn't know whether I've got a ticket or not." But nobody else particularly cared for it. "Hello, Blondie,'" said the sailor now, to a girl who was knit- ting across the aisle from him. The passengers in the front section swung around to watch. "You going to Province town, Blondie? " "Yes! " the girl said in mock exasperation, for she had already acknowl- edged this a dozen times. "He doesn't believe you, Blondie," said the man named George. "He thinks you're going to fade out at Eastham." " L k " . d h . 1 00, sal t e gIr . "Here is mr ticket!" She waved a long paper at the sailor. "Oh boy," said the sailor. "You and me, Blondie. You a jitterbug, Blondie?" She shook her head, smiling. It was clear to everyone but the sailor that he was not getting anywhere. Blondie's good-natured serenity could only mean that she was being met in Provincetown. "You and me, Blondie," said the sailor ecstatically. "I'll take you to the Atlantic House and introduce you to my moth- er." Blondie laughed; we all laughed. At that moment everybody on the bus l 77 * , ...':, rr .:,,-:;::tl ." -'.' * G J r t r \, ø r r >B * * '* I * " "",. . * ::::c::: f / , / , I ø A captivating Conti- nental setting. . . with food and service to match! For luncheon, dinner and supper. HORACIO 21TO and his Orchestra JOHNNY COLE and his Keyboard Interludes Nightly at dinner and supper S1: MORITZ ON-THE- PARK 50 CENTRAL PARK SOUTH Direction: S. Gregory Taylor ..:.... 4 } :., :;.. : / .' ;.:......., .....I......,t III .:,. ..... 'l ... f ,...,. l'l. l. .:.. ........ .' . ..:.:..... ... '..,. .t ;.!........ I,l ..... .. :;':i- ,. "-:=\1 :=-. ...,. .'. /\ .... . ':. - .'. :::::---:;:::- - :R.ôud of Its \' fø1noUS \I Old -Red L,,(,el There's Nothing Like the Original ORANGE MARMALAOE fine foods Since 1706 ø - :::::--:::::::: =- =--=--:::: $'" . I N WAS H I N G TON t A J'ALLÈAÖÜT!BOI for LU11cheon and Dtnner 1800 M Street, N. W. In New York City: 36 EAST 60th STREET · 10 EAST 52nd STREET MAKE STRIDES eN QfQ ,) ; ... I.. 630 Fifth Ave. (at 50th st.) Circle 6 - I 4 I 6 toward a Berlitz class today. Rapid progress in any language you choose. For 66 ,ears BERLITZ baa neVer lailed! ERLI